


The World Sepulcher

by IcarusOfTheSun



Category: Fantasy - Fandom, Original Work
Genre: F/F, F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-03
Updated: 2020-01-03
Packaged: 2021-02-27 14:28:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 20,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22098694
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IcarusOfTheSun/pseuds/IcarusOfTheSun
Summary: What is the nature of evil and chaos, is it mere excision of morality, or the degradation of decency? Is one born with the common sense of the greater good, or are the seeds of evil planted in the moment of inception?Within the chapters of this book may lay the answer to these questions. The multi layered story follow the villain know simply as the Pale Warlord, as he unites the barbaric tribes to conquer the lands of humans, the enchanting sorceress Thalrissa Augur, in her attempts to raise an army to defend the kingdoms against them, and a small northern boy who somehow connects these two enemies.Monsters and demons find themselves following the Pale Warlord, whom he bent to his will through unknown and horrible means, and some even whisper in the dark that he himself has powers long forgotten to the civilized peoples of the world, primal and terrible abilities so old they are not even considered myth for millenniums.The northerner is nothing but a boy living his life until his village is raided by the southerners sending his life into a miserable spiral of pain that will connect the great figure of power in the world in a great battle that will connect them for all their lives, both past and present.





	1. Forlorn 1 - The furtive truth

Under their veil, they hide the dream,

A world meant to fail, bursting at the seam,

For they made it incomplete,

A sign of their fate, and their terrible feat.

Though a sign has come, to be seen,

Through a terrible eye, and a wonderful gleam,

But the gleam, it remains, indeed,

And the hunger takes over, their devouring need.

The world will be red, painted over by the dead,

Let us brood and allude instead,

To the doom to be had, and its disastrous seat,

Where the future will sit, once complete.

They reach out, for all yet to be had,

With thousands of fingers, only five to a hand,

When the four arrive to us as ghosts,

It will become a time for us to honour our oaths.


	2. Nomad I- A light in the dark

He walked on, walked until the cold was no longer felt on his cheek until his stomach went hollow, and his eyes were slits in his face due to the wind.

"Just a little more and I can rest." he thought as he neared the summit. One rock at a time, one step next to the other, and the destination will be in sight. But it never came, it refused to be seen.

Throughout all of his journeys during this quest, never has such a void filled his chest, such a vast cavernous emptiness filled his being. He was nearing his breaking point. He was a man who suffered ungodly torture in his life, but none of that prepared him for this cold. He was a norsan after all, cold was in his blood, ice was his mirror, snow was his rain, dark clouds his morning. His fathers spent their entire lives on the open sea, in the open winds, and they lived for its thrill, yet here he was, wishing, longing for some warmth, his soul screaming for it.

Being so tall made moving in the delicate snow a bit easier for him, but the skin on his face slowly began to burn from the cold. It was naturally gaunt as if stretched over his face but even so seemed natural, fitting for such a person. He had a powerful bearing, a strong walk, with broad shoulders and able arms. His hair was black, a long time ago, now most of it taken over by the long frost of his days, or so he would like people to believe. It made him seem more trustworthy, wiser, which played to his strengths perfectly. The truth is however much darker.

He was a practitioner of the old magicks, forgotten to the world for eons, back when the world was ruled by the gods of old, and men did not yet find a way to create magic without its inherent price. Powerful magicks he possessed, powerful desire drove him, made him unrelenting, unforgiving, blind to all but his goals. Unlike the illusions and obfuscations of today, his incantations were much more direct, domination and influence over reality itself. But his greatest power came from words themselves, words hold great meaning inherently, simply by existing, and a warlocks greatest power comes from using this significance. Just by saying and expressing the simplest of concepts to his victims, it becomes the universal truth of existence, be it death, life, or something as simple as a smile.

The nomad, as he is known, has become somewhat of a myth to the norsans, a powerful warlock of old ordained by the gods to once again unite them, but what they do not know is the purpose, to end this eroding truth we call existence. This man hated all, the world, the air, the sky, all which stood as a reminder of what was once his but is now gone. Hatred fills his every sight, tunneling his vision onto the prize, avoiding the atrocities he will commit in order to achieve it. He believes it is a small price to pay in order to once again meet the gods he prays to, the ones who gave him purpose, the ones who gave him power when all else was taken from him. At his lowest moments, they were the ones who gave him the means to get here, to the greatest heights this world has to offer.

In his travels, he has seen much of the old world, many of its secrets and even more of its dangers, and survived through all of them. His masters sent him to the court of bones, into the dreadmarsh, he traveled to the cities of bygones, and then further west, then further still, to the edge of the Teeth of the world, a giant mountain range with unnaturally sharp peaks, seethed with beasts and dragon giants, all of which were born when the first dragon died, and all of him that is left is his lower jaw, whose teeth now make the very mountains.

The next couple of days quickly devolved into a seemingly eternal repetition of biting cold winds, and blinding whiteness, followed quickly by nightfall and a sense of dread as unknown eyes follow from the darkness, slowly creeping forward. He sat at his fire gripping his cloak ever tighter to keep any semblance of warmth still left to him, unfazed by the seeming danger approaching him. The beasts began to growl... it was deep, menacing, and numerous. Any other man would feel the shiver of fear in his very spine, slowly descending into the core of their body, the hair on their arms rising ever further... but not him, never him. He feels no fear, for he is fear incarnate.

The beasts began to charge, ever closer, ever more dangerous.

"Stop moving" he spoke calmly, seemingly without a care in the world.

They froze in place, muscles still taut, aching to move, but unable even still. They growled and snarled in defiance, still believing that their pray was already theirs by right of the hunt. Somehow, slowly, it reached their ill-developed minds, they were no longer hunters, they became the pray. The hairs on their back receded, the growls of hatred and threat turned into squeals of mercy, as even they sensed the great power this man possessed.

He slowly stood up, still holding his cloak, and walked to the wolf closest to him, to the bravest one, the leader, the alpha. He began to kneel as he approached, raised his hand towards the wolves head, and ever so gently began to caress its head.

"Hush-hush now, little one. You mustn't show fear in front of your inferiors. It breeds mutinous thoughts, you see. Look at that one over there, he is just a little smaller than you, even if you did kill me, you would have to fight him for the first piece of the meat now. Fear is a powerful weapon, pup, but never show it, just like any good weapon, it comes at a price."

He stayed there for a while kneeling, feeling the beasts fur between his fingers, savoring the moment of their connection as if absorbing its heat as much as he could. He looked upon its now gentle face with caring eyes, understanding its desires, its instincts. A genuine bond was felt between them as if beast touched the man's soul. Finally, when enough time passed he stood back up and once again turned towards his fire, and began to walk, snow crunching beneath his heel.

"Kill each other"

The moment the words left his lips, the growls returned, erupting from behind him like a warcry, followed quickly by screams of anguish and pain. He casually sat down on his tree stump and gazed deeply into the fire, as if expecting to see something of importance.

"In silence" he continued.

The sounds around him fell to a grim death, as quickly as they came to be only a moment before, akin to the world itself dying in an instant. The fire made him remember the days of yore, the days of his childhood, of his lost loves, and forgotten plains, snowy valleys and damp caves, only to be interrupted by the sound of broken bones and torn skin. After some time had passed, the world died once more, a complete and utter solitude was felt in the wind.

The final beast approached him, the last to live, the victor. It was a broken thing now, its pack dead, and its body limp beyond use. But still vengeance will be had, it will take him with it if it must.

"Come here"

It bowed its once proud head and with a heavy step sat next to its master. He looked down onto the wolf and saw it was the one he petted a while ago. As black as night, with white tufts of fur around its mouth, giving voice to its age.

"Ah it is you, I guess you earned your stripes after all. How powerful you must have been in your younger days, how terrifying, once long ago all of this was yours wasn't it? How proud you must have looked to gaze upon it from your throne. But the world is cruel, my friend, becoming crueler ever still", he continued to ponder the secrets of his fire.

"I envy you beasts sometimes, what simple lives you lead, not bound by morality or creed. You just live, and in fact, that is your only reason to live. Life for life's sake. Something poetic to it is it not? Look at us humans, killing each other for gold, for land, for revenge. What a base existence we are compared to the nobility of the wolves. All working to a common goal of survival, simple, but then again you are beasts. Wars have taken too many of us, famine even more still, and none do but a thing to stop it, this world is dying, my old friend, one can fight it and die with it just as well, or try to peer into what lies beyond its death, what entropy takes, it also gives back, all so it may one day take once again. I've seen the end of the world, and yet, right at its end, the birth of a new one."

Sorrow took a hold of his very soul, remembering the visions the old gods bestowed upon him.

He wakes up in a cavernous chasm, absent of almost all light but a small luminous blue orb levitating before him, shining on his surroundings. before he could even stand on his feet it darted in a hectic pattern around him, as if trying to catch his attention. He reached out with his hand to grab it, only for it to pass through like it was not even there. Looking around he saw moist rocks, sharpened to a spears edge, but strangely enough above was naught but a dark void, no ceiling as far as he could see. He mustered his courage and began to follow his shining guide, who already began to move forward. Slowly, step by step, he closed in on the light, but quickly it began to match his careful progress. Constantly he looks around him, assessing his surroundings only to again realize he cannot see much of what is around him.

After what seemed to him like hours, finally, before him laid the end of his solitude, the exit of the cave. He looked at the black sky embellished with blue and purple mists like clouds, a green mass of energy dancing behind them. The ground was broken much akin to islands absent of an ocean. The never-ending blackness was all around him and his glowing companion, both above and beneath. In the distance, he saw what he can only describe as a tent, and so, due to instinct or something else, he walked to the only thing he saw as familiar. The sphere over his shoulder seemed to urge him to go the other way, but something pulled him ever closer, though he could not describe what. Only when he was but a few steps away he finally understood why the little light did not want him to approach. Rather than cloth, it was made from human skin, faces still scattered upon it. For a moment he was frightened beyond what he ever felt so far, but he had to see what was inside, what drove him forward.

He peeked inside as carefully as he could, only to find out that the fear and discuss he felt previously was nothing compared to what he was looking at now. A man slumped on his knees, with hands tied to the poles at his side with a hard rope that cut deep into his skin. He approached as slowly as he could with as little sound as possible to not alarm him. The man's back, flayed to the very bone, bleeding in front of him, chilling him to his core, with the leftover skin hung at the side of the tent to dry. He could notice the tattoos that were etched into it, black and mysterious, not from his clan or any other he has seen before. Carefully he walked around the poor victim and stood in front of it. He attempted to see if he could recognize the man's features to at least know from which region he was, but alas, to no results. Suddenly with no obvious reason, the man twitched, startling him, but with a quick thought his hand rush towards his mouth to stop any sound from escaping. The man grunted and moaned in pain, and screamed in a foreign language:

"Izomop im, milom et, izomop im. Ezob ibu em, ad en mitap esiv"

This is no longer a man, what made him as such is long gone now, he thought to himself, this has now become no more than a beast, a creature. He could not understand what it was saying and reached out to its face, but his hand went through as if it was not even there. The creature's teeth were nearly all pulled from its mouth and almost ritualistically placed on the floor in front of it. It smelled of dried blood and puss, of vomit and sweat, an aroma that permeated the air without respite. Tools of this vagrant trade laid all around this place of accursed vocations.

"Footsteps.", he thought to himself, as he heard a figure approaching outside of the tent.

He tried to see if there is any place he could conceal himself, but to no avail, it was a small and sordid place, no room for crevices to hide in. He prepared to strike his enemy as soon as he entered. The figure was monstrously tall, with long black hair, and a robe made of dirty white material stained with at least a week old blood. His skin was loose and hung in an unnatural fashion over him. His stare remained vacant of empathy, but rather replaced with a crude and misshapen sense of glee and expectation. Unkempt and oily black hair covered most of his head, with small areas remaining hairless, his neck was wide, and his shoulder broad and strong. The skin of this man was as if made of ash... gray and cracked in an irregular pattern. His clothes were makeshift at best, crude and coarse, made of worn cloth stitched together as best as possible in a place as barren as this one. His face held upon it unusual features, such as large cheekbones and very sunken eyes, but the strangest of all is that he had no cartilage on it... no nose... no ears, instead only wound in their place. Theses wounds much like the creature itself emanated voracious amounts of puss and various other fluids, all resulting in him smelling even worse than his victim. He held a simple stone hatchet in one hand and a rusty blood-soaked hammer in the other. The flesh over his skin was pulled back to the edges of his face, revealing the blackened rot infested teeth, and the expressive tongue that wiggled and writhed within his mouth.

He spoke in a manner that could not even be considered speech, with wet growls and clicks, and then the coward in the corner realized, the giant did not notice him. He was standing right in front of him, yet remained unseen like it was obfuscated by some unseen magic. The torturer approached the slumped creature, pulling a small chair behind him with his muscular and hairy arms. As he sat on the chair, he raised his stone ax and gently pressed it against the creatures exposed rib. It began to cry before anything even happened, for it knew what would follow. The giant began to tap the back of the hatchet with his hammer, and with every tap, the invisible man felt excruciating pain in his back, the same location where the beast would have its senses assaulted as well. It twitched and contorted to almost impossible positions trying to escape this torture. The nomad dropped to his knees from the pain, his vision blurring further and further with every strike. His breath evaded him, further and further, his lungs almost imploding from shock.

A crackling in the fire snapped him out of his memories, and he noticed its power slowly waning, the cold creeping around him, slowly moving in closer and closer to once again grip its freezing arms over him. His companion, however, had no such worries. His thick fur made him immune to the frost, it stuck to him just the same as it did to the nomad, but it did not faze him in the slightest. The man was envious of the beast, he needed a solution, fuel for the blaze.


	3. Sorceress I -The Limits Of Elegance

She entered a grand hall, lined with bone white marble and gilded gold. Every crevice and every asymmetric sculpture had a function, a purpose. This is a man of great culture, and even greater wealth. Was it a truth or lie, that was about to reveal itself.

The slaves ran around in hectic patterns, dashing and dodging from guest to guest with a palpable fear in their eye, sun gleaming off of their sunbathed skin and fracturing on the sweat of their backs.There was something pleasing about them, men and women both were very elegant at first sight, the bones of their cheeks, the firmness of the breast, the hop of the thigh, the strength of the arm, but nonetheless all artificial. In Parr even slaves are made for show, made to look like they are better than their shackled brethren in the northern lands, even though the difference of their status was nonexistent. Both were made to serve, both were less than men, objects to be acted upon, to use and discard at a whim, the only difference is that these particular objects had some craftsmanship in them, a skilled hand in their making, but a hammer need not be pretty, it needs to last, and it is because of their beauty that the slaves in Parr burn brightly, but shortly. Many a masters here know the pain of losing a beautiful slave due to...overuse.

"Thalrisa Augur" the greeter spoke in his warm distant tone. As warm as the voice may be all could hear he was tired of the pomp and the theater.

"Ah, Dame Augur, so pleased we could receive you, my my, an enchantress in our fair city of Parr, what a day to rejoice, is it not my esteemed guests, is it not a great time when we welcome to this city a beauty so profound it could shame our own sirens" King Daarta spoke with a loud and playful voice, never sure if he was intent on provoking ire, or just playing with his victim, like a cat tossing a mouse.

"I am honored by your kind words, Lord Regent Daarta" the room fell silent at the sheer audacity of the enchantresses words, but she continued not giving them a second thought.

"Tell me my lord, where may I find the King, I wish, with your permission of course, to break words with him over the accords reached within the borders of your northern neighbors, the Duchy of Provost. From what I hear the Duchess is very interested in your northernmost lands. And now with the Ashen wars at an end, all of her attention now turn to your fair... fair lands" 

A delicate smirk etched itself on her beautiful pale features. Her milky skin shined immaculately in the bright yellow sun breaking through the canopy of the ceiling, almost as if she was made of winter's first snow. The slender arms radiated pure elegance, with armlets made of polished bronze and sanguine gems. Her dress was a thing of dreams, bone white, embellished with intricate red roses on its lower right side and just a sparkle of gold within the blooming flower itself. A seam on its left was cut perfectly to follow her long fit and slender leg, to just leave enough to lust for, yet enough to imagine. A dress made for queens with the lightest of silks, silhouetting her body perfectly. And sure as the dress itself, there was an allure beneath it, an ideal symmetry, of flesh and light, strong enough to overpower any man if ever seen bare.

And what really made Thalrisa particularly dangerous is that she knew the effect she had on men, knew all too well, and she enjoyed it, she loved it, but she never desired it. She was aware of the thin veil between a man and a beast, and she dared not to approach it.

"My what fangs you have my lady", Lord Regent Daarta replied: "To come to my very home with threats of war and battle, oh but I do love a bit of banter, practice for the mind I say. And the gods know I could use some practice with the mind as much as with the blade"

Thalrisa attempted to hide the smile that was rushing to her face, not because of what the Lord Reagent said, but precisely because he was not aware of the thinly veiled meaning behind it, but alas, a simplest of smirks escaped her ambitious endeavor.

"As much as it would please to sharpen the tongue my lord, I come with grievous news, the Duchess has been received by My Lord in order to request assistance in invading your lands, even as we speak they are brokering an alliance."

A sharp inhale echoed throughout the hall.

"Then why are you here, my lady?" Daarta asked without wanting to hear the answer.

"According to my master, the duchess has been given more than enough power, yet still she wants more. She may one day rise to be a threat, if her rise is further humored, and so the emperor commanded me to come here to present you with the opportunity to occupy her lands, attack now and she wont be able to defend"

"Oh well if the Emperor commands who are we to say no, my pretty deceiver, you came in here with silken tongues only to sour our wine and soil our meals. I will not have it. I will not bend the knee to a man in a tower ruling by his name alone" Lord Daarta clamored.

"Parr is strong, stronger than you know m'lady. And we will not be coerced by some cursed upstart playing at power. From the shores, our ships will bombard, steal, kill, and pillage, your cities will dry up, your rivers will be swarmed. That is the power of Parr, our wealth and the sea itself"

"But my lord- she sensually sat down an ornamented chair, encased in diamonds and white gold, and slowly crossed her voluptuous legs, all the while leaning forward ever so delicately to present her erotic cleavage and leaning on her thigh using her left elbow, as if to seem aloof, - I do so genuinely detest pointing out that which is for all to see, then again my lord, I believe that in this particular situation I am obviously forced to do so. We, my Lord Regent Daarta, as you a probably aware, are not on the sea... we are in fact, my esteemed host, on land, and as far as my military knowledge goes, one doesn't effectively defend the land from the sea. And while you may control the deep waters, the road from Novgorod to Parr is quite dry, with barely a stream near it"

"Do you seek to bully my lord with threats of invasion?" a guest echoed through the crowd, a small gentle man, with a puffy silken suit of bright colors, made to keep its occupant cool and collected in the scorching summer days of Parr. He had a long black beard and pronounced bushy eyebrows which glistened with just a dab of sweat off of his forehead.

Lord Regent cut into the conversation before the man could continue.

"Grateful as I may be lord Mhyrkhan, I fight my battles on my own, speaking of which!"

Daarka stood up from his resplendent throne and marched with an anger in his step down the white marble stairs towards the temptress. Every step echoed and provoked the crowd to look on as the their lord looked as if he would let his fist smash into the delicate face of Dame Augur.

She sat there and watched him, unfazed, as if she was reading a dull piece of scripture rather than being stared down by an inferno. Daarka was a rather large man, with an extravagant taste in clothing, as well as swords. He was known around the world as a skilled fighter, dabbing in poisons as well as unusual eastern fighting techniques that would bewilder most opponents and leave them dazed before unleashing the final blow. His hands were rough and calloused from overuse, as during his rather younger days, he raided with the King's father, King Farhad. Numerous ships did the two seize together, and before long they were considered as one, one fear of the seas, one crew, one captain, split into two. It is well known that Daarka was not a native of Paar, but was rather a slave of an eastern kingdom before King Farhad freed him in a night raid on a small coastal town. From that moment forward Daarka was indebted to the great man and served him without failure to his dying day. It is said that only recently have the seeds of ambition grown within Daarka, as he detests being called Lord Reagent, and instead insists on being called King by those he rules over.

But Dame Augur knew the truth, as well did all around them, but she was the only one who refuse to participate in the charade. She served an emperor, higher even than a king, and she would not bow to a deranged hero of old, no matter his greatness.

He was nearly on top of her, raising his hand higher and higher with each step, closing in for the final strike, and with a slight backward jolt of his elbow the hand lunged forward, he would not have anyone insult Parr, and him along with it, it was unthinkable to him, and he would rectify it.

"My King!!!" the suspense was broken with a loud high pitched call from the back as time seemed to freeze.

"I would advise you to stop what you are doing lest we may end being perceived as uncivil, tarnishing our reputation in the process"

The Lady that called for her Lord, was a beauty equal to Dame Augur, equal to but all the more different. She was far more exotic, and emanated a different aura altogether. All could see by her dark skin that she was from the eastern redlands, her clean shaved and tattooed scalp only proved everyone's assumption even further, but her beauty was undeniable. Compared to Dame Augur her face was much softer, and its features were less distinct, but nonetheless, many a man would go their entire lives without seeing women with beauty coming even close to rivaling these two goddesses, yet here they are, in the same hall no less.

"To raise a hand towards a lady may be seen as barbaric in and of itself, my lord, but this is no mere lady of the court. This is Dame Thalrisa Augur, envoy of the emperor, and his voice. An attack on her is a provocation of his holy Majesty"

"I know what it means you damned witch, I will never understand why kings insist on surrounding themselves with your kind, you are poisoners, thieves and liars, the lot of you. But here it is even I, a ruler of an entire country must bend the knee to the great and powerful sorceresses. I know full well who she is Dehaka, but unlike you, I do not fear her, I fought monsters and beasts the likes of which men have never laid eyes upon. I know what fear is, and this little girl", he said with disgust and contempt: "does not instill any fear whatsoever"

"You are a brave man indeed then Lord Daarka. Kings choose to surround themselves with mages and sorceresses since they are wise, and very persuasive, not to mention that they alone can with a single spell turn the tide of an entire war. It is unwise to not have at least one expert in the magical arts, and most kings have several, that is why. And our guest here is particularly famous as the person who almost single handedly put her lord on the throne, for her power is indeed that great. I've seen her personally flail a man alive with a flick of a finger."

Thalrisa felt a strange mixture of pride and sorrow at Dehaka's words, she was proud of the mastery of her powers, and the heights to which they propelled her and her lord, but the methods that had to be employed at certain moments will always stay with her.

Daarka calmed down for a moment, turned and stubbornly began to walk back to his throne, whispering something to his beard. He sat down with a loud thump, leaned on his left arm, stretched his legs and began to speak -Fine, say your piece woman, and let us be done with you.-

Thalrisa removed herself from the chair, slowly caresing her sides with her radiant hands as she moved upwards, making sure all of the men had their eyes fixed upon her. Every move that she made was never excessive, it was calculated in advance, obfuscated, misdirected, and concealed, all towards a desired result.

"Thank you my lord. The Emperor will need time to muster his forces in order to repel you, during which you will be able to pillage and steal to your content. I strongly believe this will stop the duchess and her growth in power while increasing your status as a nation considerably. There will be of course superficial hostilities between our two great nations, but with time all will return to normal", she stood with a regal bearing as she spoke softly, as a mother would to a child, for she knew such a warm and inviting tone would invoke the desired effect in the crowd.

Dehaka saw through her act, and waited for the right moment to join her, as she and she alone knew was at stake. But Daarta was a stubborn man, a man with a head of an ox. His gaunt and long face seemed to exude an aura of utter fury. He did not care for lies and backstabings, he was a man of the sword, of black iron and rough sinew, of curdled cries and broken bones. Sorceresses and warlocks were beyond his interest and understanding, for he was a simple man. To build a boat one needs timber, to build a castle one needs stone, and to create a blade one needs iron. He was perplexed by people who created fire out of nothing, who weaved spells and could rip a mans souls out of his own body. A simple man yes, but a dangerous one, as his experience has taught him many secrets of combat, including one to stop any spell from coming to fruition, hold the mouth of the one conjuring it before he finishes and the spell is held in place, cut the throat, break the neck and the spell is undone. And what a neck it was, he could almost feel the smooth pale skin in his hand, hear the crack of the spine as he wrung it clockwise, but alas such fantasies will remain just that.

"I mush advise my kindest of lords to hear Dame Augur's plea, she is correct, stories of the duchies growing powers have reached my ears, their wealth produces many sellswords willing to partake in their offers..." she attempted to speak further, but before she could finish Daarta screamed.

-Loken...Loken where are you?-

A man fought through the crowd and kneeled before his lord: "Present sir, what would have of me?"

Daarta stood proudly and towards the man, barely of age, small and thin, black haired and bronze skinned. He looked inexperienced, no scars or bruises no broken bones or unusual walks. But the tattoos on his back were incredible, precise, and detailed, beautiful to behold, covering his torso in a manor unseen were he clothed. He was for all to see, and untouched creature, unknown to the fights of war. The lord regent stopped as he neared the boys shoulder and then gestured for the boy to stand and turn.

"This is Loken, my own son, not by blood but by the blade, a bond even stronger than family, I trained him since he could stand. He is one of the best blade dancers in Parr. And for all intent and purposes, he will be my voice Dame Augur. I will help you in your endeavor, but know this, I do not do it for free, my ships pass unhindered through both Provost, and through the lands of the emperor, am I to presume I am understood?"

"Well, I thank you my lord, but I am afraid i do not have the authority to approve such an agreement, I can give you my word that I will break words with the emperor on the subject as early as time allows" Thalrisa felt an air of ease around the room when compared to the previous state of affairs.

"Wel,l my lady how could I ask you for more...Now...Loken, Purava... Dance for our guests!"

The whole crowd jolted at the words and created a circle around the two men. Daarta stepped back onto his throne and one of the guards standing next to it moved down and stood next to his opponent to be. He let go of the sword strapped to his belt and took of his armored vest. Both stood in their trousers alone barefooted, the sun glistening of their bare backs and chest.

"Ya mas Daarta, borit va Parr" The regent bellowed in Parr's native tongue, and as soon as the last word left his mouth deep rhythmically drum patterns could be heard around the hall.

The man lifted their heels of the ground, as to become lighter on their feet.

"Elpok" Purava screamed, and a spear was thrust from the croud into his raised hand.

"Zedob" Loken exhaled as a guard began to approach him with a short gladius and a polished bronze buckler.

The men began to slowly and to the beat circle one another. The guard was the first to lunge with his long and narrow spear, Loken began dodging effortlessly and Thalrisa could swear she saw a smile on his face. Left, right, down, spin to the side, weave behind his enemy, Loken did it all, all with joy, the boy lived for combat. The next moment he slammed his feet onto the floor, toes and heel both, and changed his stance. His shield was raised to his shoulder, and the blade leaned onto it above his head, he was a hunter, and the pray was in his sights. He rushed towards his enemy with a few hops, jumping from one side to the other. The guard thrust his spear at his heart, and Loken stopped in a single step, now on the defensive. Jab after jab of the spear was deflected by the shield, even though the attacks were lightning quick. And there it was, the missed step, the error, the chip in the armor that he was looking for. The guards foot landed poorly during one of his attacks, and Loken was committed to exploiting it. Stepping bellow the attack he broke the spear above him by lodging it between the sword and shield, and with a switch of his hands splinters broke in all directions. He spun twice and threw his shield in the face of his attacker, picked up the tip from the floor, and spiraled himself once, twice, thrice in order to conceal his attack, on the fourth the hit landed, the spear connected to shoulder, and with a sharp pain the man leaned to the punctured side, at which moment Loken stopped only to spin once again in the opposite direction and embed the blade in the guards left rib and rip the stomach. The man was gone, all could see it, it was a matter of moments, but for the young warrior, this was not enough. He stood in front of his challenger gripped both of the weapons and violently pushed them deeper inside. Blood burst and the man let out a painful screech, and in a flash, Loken removed his tools of death from the body and sliced the neck with the blade while lodging the spear within the heart. The man was dead before he reached the floor.

"Will he suffice?" Daarta asked proudly.

"Oh im sure I will manage" Thalrisa answered.


	4. Damned I - The Blessings Of The Past

He woke up same as any other day, nay a care in the world, for he was a child during those blessed days. Worries were the last thing on his mind, he had other things to deal with. Such is the time of childhood when one needn't bother oneself with the problems of the world, but rather focus on the beautiful things that lay around you, such as a girl who you dare not approach, or the beauty of salt in the air and the sun on your skin. For some reason, he always found himself in a fight over some needles thing, such as a ball or snow in someone's face, as children often do. But very soon he realized that he is good at it, really good. It was an instinct with him, without knowing how, why or when he was never hit, blows went around and above, yet his strikes were as if made by norsan bowman, almost without even looking he could strike any part of his opponents body, and that which scared him most...is that he liked it. Often he would be scolded by his loving mother cause of it, and his bruised hands looked after by his sister. His father did not mind much all of the fighting, he believed in the old words, boys will be boys, children fight etc. He kept repeating them every time a parent came to his door, bruised and bloodied child in hand.

Words of his prowess spread through the village, and many children began to fear him. For a while, he felt isolated, alone, abandoned, but he did not care, he will always have Mikayla. A shepherds girl, with pristine golden long hair reaching her lower back. A boyish girl with rosy cheeks, and a beautiful smile. Her blue eyes as if made from the sea itself shined vividly in almost any light, a sight to remember indeed. And remember he did, in every dream and every waking moment he saw Mikayla. She was the only one to never show him any fear but rather enjoyed annoying him to no end, but it was playful anger, one that would often result in laughs on both sides. With her he felt at peace, time slowed down, and he did not need to rush anything. He cherished their time together, counted the seconds he would look upon her face, remember every freckle, and one day, one day he would gather the courage to kiss her. Him... him who is known to be fearless, he who jumps into Knifepoint bay without a second thought, him who climbs the tallest of trees and sharpest of rocks, goes into the darkest of caves and deepest of waters, does not have the courage to do something as simple as kissing a girl. It was bewildering to him, but here it was, the crushing void in his chest every time he even thinks of attempting to seize the moment.

Months passed and his lack of action was infuriating, even though it seemed unending still he strangely hated and enjoyed every moment of it. It was a dichotomy he loved greatly, yet crushed his spirit, a thing Mikayla would regenerate in an instant. But then the day finally came. She arrived at his house bright and early, unannounced, wearing a beautiful yellow dress and a brown doublet over it, all engulfed in her thick overcoat of leather, she wore her hair in a long well kept braid, and the bright sun added just a dab of blush to her cheeks. As soon as he opened the door she appeared as a vision before him, a spell, an illusion, perfect in every way. She grabbed and him by his wrist and softly whispered in his ear.

"Follow me, quick"

With an energetic pull of her hand, he was out his house before he even fully opened his eyes to greet the day.

"Where are we going? Have you lost your mind? I barely woke up." he complained through a contained smile.

"You just have to know everything, don't you? Some things are better when they are a mystery" she ran as she kept smiling.

They dashed through bushes and trees and headed towards the northern cave, an eerie place that has an ethereal beauty to it. It was a strange place, unusual for the snowy region to suddenly have a cave on top of a hill, with warm underground waters. Though they were near the sea, such caves can usually be found in the rocky cliffs. They approached the caves summit at breakneck speed, never stopping for a moment, no respite for the young. He looked around the snowy horizon for wolves and other beasts that may endanger them, but spotted nothing, and therefore assumed their safety.

"Why are we here Mikayla, I'm freezing."

"Your father would be ashamed to hear you, a norsan freezing" she laughed.

"I don't even have my shoes on Mikayla" he continued to bellow: "I don't even have my shoes"

He liked to do that, to repeat himself much louder for effect, really did get the point across. But Mikayla knew him all to well to let her be dissuaded by such a minor thing as footwear, she waited long enough, her time is now, and now alone.

She stood at the edge of the cave's ceiling, and looked down into the chasm below. It shined beautifully with a bright blue hew, wet stones reflecting the light from the outside. All the while the boy stood next to her, tempers boiling with the cold, but then again... he is with her... all alone... isolated. He glanced down on her and just like always, calmed down in mere instants, he sat on the edge next to her where she was kneeling and looked down.

"Its deep is it not, look at all the colors."

Colors in and of themselves did not move him much, he was not a painter or troubadour at heart, no poetry in his soul, he was far too simple of a boy for that.

"I'm looking, and I don't see the fascination with them"

"Must you spoil everything, your such a boy, have you no love for the finer things in life"

He looked at her smiling face, eyes shining with excitement.

"Well, here and there, but certainly would not think of caves as pretty, their dark and damp...and cold, trust me, I'd know"

"You are dark and damp sometimes" she whispered under her breath.

"I'm sorry I didn't quite catch that, were you saying something," he said loudly all the while grinning.

She started to stand up and put her hand over one knee: "I said" , all the while turning towards him: "You ar..."

And then it happened, her leg slipped as she leaned into it, losing her footing she gave to gravity, looking up towards the sky, screaming the boy's name all the while.

"MIKAYLA" he screamed, jumping after her without a thought.

The cold air slashed across his face as he descended after the poor girl, imagining all the possibilities and dreading every single one of them. Finally moments before impacting the water he caught her, held her tightly and braced.

They smashed into the icy water with great force, and before he even knew what happened she was no longer in his embrace. The smash made his skin tingle as if burning, but characteristically he came to his senses quickly. He rose to the water's surface and looked around to see if she maybe ascended before him, but to no avail. Quickly he dove down into the deep to look for her, and as the water was luminous and clear it took him mere moments. Going deeper and deeper he grabbed her hand and began to pull towards the surface. He gasped for air, and gazed upon her pale face, noticing that her ample bosom was not moving whatsoever...she wasn't breathing.

With all his might he dragged her through the pool until he reached its edge, pulling her over it, he removed her overcoat and doublet, exposing a thin silken shirt underneath. With utmost speed, he proceeded to press on her rib cage to stimulate her breathing once more. They were a seafaring people, and as any boy is expected to become a raider upon reaching adulthood he already knew all there is to know on the subject of saving a person suffocated by water, the coldest of deaths they call it. But then came the moment where the water must be exchanged for air, a moment where the lips must become as one, to their people this was a sacred thing. They served much crueler gods than those of the south, cruel but fair. In order to give life to someone, he must sacrifice his very breath to the gods, the vessel for them being the one to be revived. And so with any sort of choice removed from his mind, he leaned in, closer...closer...closer again, this time feeling his own heart like a mountain dancing in his chest...pounding...aching to rip itself out.

Their lips became one, and he began to exhale as forcefully as he could, he knew time is paramount.

"Not her... Not her... Anyone but her" he thought to himself, overcome with true fear for the first time in his life, the kind of fear that stays with a man, the kind that never lets us go.

Suddenly he felt her hands in his obsidian hair, pulling him gently towards her, her sanguine lips enveloping his...she was alive, pretending, and best of all...she was kissing him. After a few moments of disbelief, he finally snapped out of his trance, grabbed her by her waist and her neck and gently kissed back.

In his state of pure unrefined exhilaration and joy, he never realized how much time passed. Eternity was an instance, a moment was everlasting, he could not make up his mind.

"Took you long enough, didn't it?" she said during a pause in their newly formed passion.

"Don't ever do that again, what's wrong with you?" he responded while catching his breath.

A mischievous smile appeared on her face, an intriguing one... one that he adored at that moment.

"Well, it's either this or waiting for you. And frankly, I've gotten tired of that. Why? You didn't like my little plan"

"Four gods, Mikayla, you could have tried talking to me couldn't you?" he answered whilst finally feeling the shock receding.

"I could have, yes. But this was MUCH more fun than that, wasn't it?", she joyfully said while a playful smirk broke on her face.

Both of them burst into laughter lasting more than they thought one could laugh, but such is the effect of joy, of happiness. They've spent some time together, in each other's arms. They enjoyed it to the fullest, every moment. He stroked her long sun-colored hair, for a very long time, and looked at the ceiling of the cave. Her head rested gently on his shoulder, while her fingers moved around and stroked the skin of his chest.

Finally, he broke the silence: "My father wants me to go to Ulthoran", he said, worried what conversation may follow.

"Ulthoran?", she responded inquisitively: "Why there, you are not planning on becoming a priest... Are you?", the same fear now began to take over her.

"My fathers a priest, so he kind of thinks its a family tradition, according to him I'm a capable fighter, he's been training me for years now, I even managed to get close to maybe beating him once if all the stars aligned properly", he exclaimed with fake pride to hide the stone lying atop his heart.

"I never met your father, my old man kept telling me that he will one day look less and less like a giant as I get older... Well, I'm still waiting for it. But wait, what's so bad with being a priest? Priests have families, right?"

He kept thinking to himself how difficult it is to explain to someone who hasn't heard the stories of the Ulthoran priests, the real stories, not just myths, and legends. He did not fear a lot, but he feared what may happen if he ever went... without Mikayla next to him.

"My father spent most of his life fighting, I know he may seem usually calm and collected, but according to what my mother told me even the seneschals feared him long ago. He was nothing more than a brute, an animal on the battlefield.", he continued softly: "You should see the way he looks when he talks about it, the sorrow he feels when he talks about his comrades. I thought he was a hero when I was much younger, but over the years I realized that somewhere deep inside, it took a lot out of him, a lot more than he is willing to admit."

Mikayla faked a smile, to break the mood that was suddenly soured: "I find it hard to believe a man of his size and fame can regret a thing. He is a walking legend. Orm Bjornson... the blood eater, can you imagine what you need to do to get a name like that?"

"I don't need to, I already know", he looked down towards his feet as he spoke, consumed with worries.

"Why can't you just tell him no? I mean you don't want to go, do you?", Mikayla allowed her innocence to break through.

"Haha!" the boy laughed loudly: "You try telling a man called BLOOD EATER that you don't want to listen to him, that you want to go against his wishes. I mean he is not cruel or unreasonable, but you know how honourable it is to become an Ulthoran priest. You become the most sought after raider in the entire north the moment you are given your forge-weapon. Every warlord and seneschal in the north is gonna be after you no matter the price, it is not an easy life, both for you and those around you."

"I don't know, your mother seems just fine, I mean if it is so hard shes bound to have the secret to making it work in a marriage with the BLOOD EATER."

"My mother always used to say that she fell in love with the human beneath the "beast" as she called it, and if you ask my father that wasn't an easy thing to do", he said through a smile remembering his mothers face.

"Well, I guess il just have to do that now won't I?", she responded with a smile.

He kept laying there in silence, lost in his thoughts when it suddenly dawned on him: "Wait... What did you just say?"

She jumped back onto her feet and with her customary wry smile declared: "All in due time, my great priest, its getting late, my mother will kill me if I'm too late to get home"

"If you don't put your clothes back on she's also going to probably kill me as well"


	5. Nomad II - The Creator of Death

He sat there thinking of his eventual death, of the death of the world, of the inevitability of entropy overcoming all. Quickly his memories returned to him, reminding him of the broken nearly corpse-like creature that hung in front of him within that dimension, and the monster torturing it.

"Runes are a delicate practice, young one" the giant spoke.

"Forgotten to the world below, but not here, never here. We made them, and we keep them. Cruel as their forging may be, everything in this world comes at a price"

"You can see me?" the man asked, gathering some respite from the giant's torture.

"Why wouldn't I? You are here are you not? Why do you think you are here? I willed it, therefore, it is"

"Who are you?" he continued his questioning.

"HA! I am many things young one, I am whatever I choose to be, a father, a coffin, I am many things at once, I life give, and I life take, for all life is mine to begin with. All of you belong to me, some, like this fine specimen, accept that and give it back, some do not, and suffer even more. My siblings and I made the world, but we made as a wild beast, and it struggles against our control. It must be either tamed or put down"

"WHO ARE YOU?" the man gathered enough air to let out a weak scream.

"Brave, brave indeed. Don't overstep lad, you are strong that much is certain" he tapped the hatchet lightly sending the man down to the ground in a wave of agony.

"But as you can see not that strong. There are those who are as far beyond you as you are as far beyond an insect, remember that. A powerful lesson I am bestowing upon you, and for free, not something I am known for, mind you, but you are a special case."

"Who are you?" he asked coughing violently all the while.

"You are going to keep asking the same question over and over, how dull. But then again, your tenacity is why we choose you. You are a broken man, discarded by the world you discarded in return. It has taken everything from you, and what I am giving you now, is a chance to take it all back. You will be our avatar, our chosen herald. You will prepare the world for us"

"I will ask only one more time, after which I will deny anything you are offering to me if you do not answer, who are you?" anger made his blood boil, and fight through this pain.

"I am the one who made death, boy, I am the one who the dying pray to for mercy, I am the one who the living pray to for health, I am the one who the borne pray to for long life, I command life itself, you pathetic creature. Throughout the ages I was known under many names, you, however, know me as the Crow" the giant moved swiftly towards the man, much faster than anyone of his size should be able to, moving so close to his face, the man could taste all the foul fluids in the air.

"You are a god?" he starred into the putrid face with shock.

"Yes, the oldest, the first god, the one discarded and forgotten. Your kind has fallen far and absolved themselves from our ways, now they pray to false idols of order and beauty, but the universe is chaotic, my child, cold and ugly, yet you blind yourself like sheep to this truth, you find excuses why thing are as they are, not realizing it is not yours to know the workings of gods. You race must once again be brought to heel, and you will usher in this revolution"

The man thought about all of the times the world denied him peace and love, of all the things taken from him. The pure hatred he felt for existence and what curses it bestowed upon him for the unforgivable crime of living.

"I accept" he bowed his head feeling some unknown shame taking over him.

"Splendid, then let us be off" the giant jolted up in joy and smashed his hands into his fat belly.

The man fell through the ground, and kept falling still, surrounded by lights of every colour he ever saw dashing around him in patterns to fast for him to fully perceive, he was mesmerized, captivated. He lost all sense of time while falling, may have been minutes, or maybe days, he had no way of measuring as even closing his eyes would not stop him from seeing the lights, finally with a crushing blow that left him breathless he impacted the ground. His eyes still adjusting due to overstimulation, he slowly, yet proudly stood, not knowing what awaits him.

He saw for figures, dimly light, all of them gigantic in size and power, sitting on their thrones. The first one located on the left was a simple wooden throne carved into a tree larger than anything he has ever seen before, one side of the tree brimming with life and beauty, while the other rotten to the very core, with shrivelled fruits hanging from withered branches. On the throne sat a massive bloated monster, with horrid green skin, and a mass of entrails hanging from its stomach. A green ocean of fluids emanated from its oversized body, forming a river of rancid and foul waters infested by things he dared not imagine.

Next to him, there was a throne made of blackest iron, larger than any he has seen before, which sat upon a mountain of skulls. The base of this monolithic structure burned with bright red flames, nearly engulfing it all, and shrouding the figure upon it. Through the inferno he could just make out a titanic figure clad in armor so dark, he thought it ate all light around it, fear and pain permeated from this colossal warrior, a veteran of millions of battle he thought. Leaning on the armrest of this throne was a blade that dwarfed anything he has ever seen, made of what seemed to be a slab of red steel, larger than the armored figure himself, this blade he was certain could split mountains if swung at them.

However, the one afterward was not nearly as grandiose as those that came before it. A simple large wooden chair engraved with stylistic gilded etchings. But unlike all other, it was vacant, void of any occupant. It floated above the void, surrounded by blue mists which followed an ebb and flow around it, calm, yet purposeful, precisely timed, rhythmical.

The final throne was no throne at all, rather a tower made of men and women climbing for its summit all the while caught in an endless cycle of carnal desires and pleasure with one another, moaning and screaming in pure and unrefined ecstasy of the flesh that continued downward into the darkness as far as he could see. Those at the tower's summit desperately stretched their hands further and further as much as they could to reach their prize. A beautiful figure, with pristine purple and pink skin, features of both man and woman in equal measure. The wide hips of a woman, coupled with the broad and strong shoulders of a man, the ample bosom of a woman, the powerful neck of a blacksmith, a face of a perfect lady, with the strong legs of a barbarian, yet all somehow together perfectly sublime.

"Stand before the gods of old, the wizened crow, the primaeval wolf, the first snake, the oldest bear. Stand now and receive our blessing. Stand now and receive our curse" they spoke in perfect unison of angelic voices and booming scream.

He stepped forward, not yet understanding what is happening. He waited for further instructions as he was unsure what was his next step.

"Eat the crow, break the wolf, see the snake, and love the cat" they bellowed again.

The closer he got to the tall tree the harder it became to breathe, as the foul air began to corrupt his lungs further and further, every step became a battle, every breath a never-ending struggle. But through sheer spite, he reached the putrid God.

"Feast on the flesh of death and receive my blessing, receive my curse" the deity outstretched his rotting extremity towards the man's mouth, the smell, and sight nearly overpowering. He could see the insects writhing beneath its skin, breaking it open releasing the lymph stuck beneath it.

"Perfect are they not...my children, let them clean you from the inside, let them remove all rot from within, now feast"

Mustering every bit of control he had, he bit the hand tore a large chunk of dissolving fat and sinewy muscle, and devoured it as fast as he could, better do it quickly, rather than prolong the suffering. It was done, it tasted like death itself but finally, it was done. Out of nowhere and excruciating pain rose from the centre of his body overpowering him down to his knees, pain unlike any he had ever felt before, he felt the insects ravaging his body, eating away from deep inside of him, twisting his body beyond what he thought was possible, it lasted for hours. The insanity began to creep in from the dark corners of his mind, but no, he would not allow it, he will control his own will, it is his, he owns it, it will never command him. And just like that the pain was gone, as if it never even existed, he managed to stand up and look at his patron proudly in the eye, and took the deepest breath in his life, no longer smelling the disease filled river, no longer affected by the sight of the rot, purified.

"You are now perfect young one, disease will never hold you, an infection will never touch you, you are above such petty notions" the crow proudly pronounced.

He turned around and began his descent from the mountainous bark, unnaturally stronger and more vigorous. Once again he stood on the platform where he was hours ago, better than he ever was. With every step faster and lighter, he immediately began to ascend the mountain of bones that challenged him to go even further into the fire at the summit.

"I could really use some of that fire right about now", he spoke to himself.

Once long ago it infused him with such incredible pain, but now he yearns for it, it may as well be the greatest desire his consciousness could comprehend right now. The wolf still sat next to him, defiantly looking at him, pure anger in his eyes.

"Good, hold onto that anger, many creatures fear the fury of vengeance, what they may become if they give into it. I have gained nothing but power whenever I surrendered, you should do so as well, even though it is a bit too late now for that."

He continued to once again pet the noble beast, feeling a strange sense of kinship with it. The old wolf was also alone now, no one at his back, no one to stand abreast with. Solitude is a dangerous thing he knows this better than anyone, 'tis a very creeping death, slowly taking over your mind eating at every joy you ever felt in your life and feeding the darkest corners of your mind with it. He was once happy, a long time ago, but now solitude and sorrow made him a monster, a powerful monster, the worst kind.


	6. Sorceress II - The Northern Onslaught

Loken followed Thalrisa through the palace as she was weaving through the brightly lit causeways. He wondered to himself how could such a young woman command such great respect at such an age. Was it simply because of her beauty, or was she truly as powerful as Dehaka suggested?

He knew Dehaka for years and thought for the longest time that she was simply an arrogant woman, with her high bearing and cold demeanour. For her to simply imply someone is vastly more powerful than her...well then it must be true, but to be so certain of it, this woman has to be truly frightening. From what he could surmise she was in the employ of the Emperor of Valach. 

The Emperor is not known for choosing his associates lightly. He came into power at age 14, and many in his court wanted him to wait until he was of age, but he insisted, and you don't deny an emperor. As soon as he stepped onto the political stage he began outmanoeuvring his rivals at a breathtaking pace. A political genius, he consolidated his power in a matter of weeks and made everyone very aware, this Emperor is not to be trifled with. Nearly every vassal-king within his empire bent the knee almost immediately, fearing the younglings terrible wrath. 

She entered her room, lavish and well lit, with high ceilings and a large open terrace looking onwards to the sea. She gestured for Loken to follow her in. He nodded and entered right behind her, looking around and appreciating the look of her abode, the shine on the walls and jewels encrusted into them.

"Loken right? That is your name?", she said while sliding onto her bed.

"Yes, my lady, Loken.", the question seemed to take him by surprise as he was somewhat lost in thought.

"Tell me, Loken, why do you think I came all the way to Parr for one man, and one boy at that. It must have caught your attention by now that there is more to my visit than meer trade agreements, and warmongering? Rulers usually send simple envoys for that, not a sorceress."

"Indeed my lady, it did come to my attention that your... status is somewhat... impressive for such an occasion. But it is not my business to question you, or for that matter, your Lords intentions, I am here to obey and protect, and that is what I shall do.", he stated proudly, with devotion in his words.

"You are a simple man Loken, I envy that. Tell me what do you know about mages and sorceresses?", she continued to enjoy the silken covers on the comfortable bed.

"I am terribly sorry to disappoint, my lady, but not that much. I understand somewhat your role in the world, I understand your influence and the reason behind it, but the details of what you do escape me."

"A layman answer Loken, but as good as any other. What we do is seek the truth hidden behind the veil, a truth obfuscated by the lies of gods. They created our world, they set its rules, and it is our job to find those rules and understand them. You see the elves, with all their faults, have come closer to the answers we all seek than anyone, their long-age has allowed them to do it. An elven apprentice is vastly more powerful than a regular human mage, they have magic within them, and thusly a vaster understanding of magic than humans can even hope to achieve. They are born by magic, made elves by magic, and magic is their undoing. Magic in its purest and most powerful form, the hardest to control and master, able to create and destroy in equal measure. This is what gives them their advanced understanding, for them to understand magic they need only understand themselves. Humans, on the other hand, are bound by more earthly concerns, and thusly for us to understand such things, it takes something from us in order to offer a hand in return. Magic is cruel mistress, she extends one hand in peace, so she may hold the dagger in the other."

Destroy, create, primordial, all of these things writhed within Loken's skull, too much of a high concept for him to understand, he was a simple man, a sword is sharp and the man who wields it with more skill will survive.

"Madam, if I may, why am I here, why has the emperor sent you to Parr, a sorceress of your stature must have better things to do than to parley with a small kingdom like ours.", even though simple in lifestyle, Loken's mind was as sharp as any blade he wielded.

"Lets put it this way Loken, there are forces in this world that would see it burn, that would topple my master's Empire, your fair city, and everything in-between. Their armies are vast, and the power of their leader greater than anything you can imagine."

Loken was never sure what he saw in her body language and face, she was talking about a massive invasion, yet kept sliding her covers over her body, tussling and turning in her bead, nary a care in the world.

"More powerful than you?", Loken asked, visibly stunned by such praise from such a powerful and influential woman.

"HAHA my dear Loken, he is called the Pale Warlord. At least that's what the barbarians call him. He is probably the most... unique being in the world. I am, with utmost certainty, his greatest threat, and even I am powerless against him.", she continued to melt into her comfortable clothes, with a large smile on her face.

"I don't know that madam, I've never met a man how doesn't die when you part his head from his shoulders", a bit full of himself, but in his eyes, to his knowledge of the world, never was a statement made with more truth in it than his.

"Haha, my dear Loken what a breath of fresh air you are. Everyone in this city is so droll and boring, they play at conspiracy, like children. Your honesty is quite refreshing. Seems I spent too much time surrounded by backstabbers and schemers, you caught me somewhat unprepared.", she laughed loudly, her face becoming soft and friendly.

"What is your story Loken? A swordsman without any scars. A very rare thing to see. Even your hands are not calloused. They appear as if they never even held a blade in their hands."

Loken looked down into the ground, at his feet, to collect his thoughts:

"Dehaka has her ways, she was instructed by my father to keep my appearance as... pleasant as possible, it is a very nice weapon I must say, much like you no one expects a man of my appearance to be... well, deadly with a blade. What about you, you seem to be only a small number of summers older than me, yet you hold the ear of an emperor?"

"I would love to tell you how I am skilled beyond my age, talented beyond measure, but alas, the truth, as it often is, is much simpler than that. My talents lie in the art of lying, or to be more precise, uncovering its practitioners. Many, much like yourself, believe that my age and my appearance means I am inexperienced. But to my great misfortune, I have seen in my short life much more than I would care to see.", all the while her smile stayed on her face, creating a certain discord with what was seen and what was said.

"And what about magic, where did you pick up that talent?", he proceeded to ask further.

"Magic is a primal force on this plane of existence. But there are certain places where it bleeds into our world much more than others. I was born in just such a place. My mother was a Maiden of Words, an old title made for women gifted with magic. As was the tradition in their order she gave her life, her consciousness and therefore all of her magic to me. This way each generation of Maidens grew more and more potent in the ways of magic, wishing to one day give birth to a woman who can rival the power of elves. And before you ask, I am not that woman, there will be many generations before that goal is met. However, my grandmother was powerful, my mothers' abilities were greater still, and my magic is more potent than both of them." - her speech was filled with an earned pride.

"Where do you come from, m'lady. I am very knowledgable in the customs of different lands, but I have never heard of these word maidens?"

"A land that is as cold as it is vast, where the sky is blotted out by white clouds, and where rivers flow only one month in a year. I come from the far north, a wild land. Where else can you see a lady with hair as yellow as mine? The sun and snow naturally bleach our hair, and over several generations, it starts to shine like a flower.", with a small twist of her head, her long hair started to move in waves, shining in the bright sun.

"I've heard stories of the north, m'lady, I've heard of men taken by the spirits of animals, reduced to mere beasts. People say, that beyond the north mountain pass, people fight possessed by old spirits and gods. They fight amongst themselves for food, for women, and shelter. They walk among giants the size of siege towers, that some have even tamed them and use them as battering rams. I've heard their gods are monstrously cruel and uncaring, that they curse their followers with pain, disease, and mutation. My father fought a northern Raid Lord on his travels, according to him at least, no man has ever shown more strength and struck a mightier blow than him. His axes could send a man clean through a ship, his armour was non-existent, even though all other men in his band wore armour much like any other man.", Loken hasn't heard this story in ages, but he still vividly remembers his fathers face when he told him how his comrades fell one by one before the ironclad giant.

"Tell me about it Loken, anything you can remember, spare no details on account of my frailty." , Thalrisa slowly leaned on her elbow awaiting this riveting story.

"They were coming from a raid of the coast of Provost, it was just before the Ashen war broke out so the country was focused on its northern border and the coast was extremely easy for raiding. Being almost done with... well... the work, my father instructed the ship be loaded with the spoils and slaves. Once they were finished and set sails, according to my father at least, it was as if the horizon was cut with a blade. He could see the nights sky through the cut, but with a purple hue in it, that wasn't the sky of Parr at the least, it had even more stars in it and he knew almost none of them, which as you can imagine is a very strange thing for a man of the sea. A purple fire began to escape the gash in the air, and burn outwardly, an unnatural thing for a fire to do, as it tends to burn strictly upwards. And then they finally saw it, the frightening soul-crushing sight, a ship emerged from the wound. Its sails were made from flayed skin, stitched together nay a second thought for any semblance of craftsmanship. They were wide and high made to catch as much wind as possible, and push the monstrous ship forward. On the bow of the ship there stood a giant blackened skull, with tusks the size of a man, it looked human at first but the tusks, especially their size gave credence that it was something... stranger... more unnatural. Furthermore, to add to the overall appearance of the ship, the beasts entombed it in a layer of bones, bones from hands... all left hands, thousands had to die to make such a feat possible. Just imagine how many deadly raids this lord had to undertake with his macabre war-band to amass such a vast amount of bones to make his ship. They had to have been great warriors, battle-hardened, unfearing of a blade, and welcoming it. It was approaching them at a frightening speed, against the wind as a matter of fact. Then they heard it. The chanting, and relentless screaming of fanatics and slaves in equal measure. My father still remembers the words to this day." 

"What were they, do you know?", Thalrisa asked, intrigued by this newfound knowledge.

"Daruma ettako ete rives nistauvella gehetake harya! Chanted over and over, again and again. Do you know what it means? My father said that it means we come for your lives, or something akin to that."

"I'm afraid not, my dear Loken, please do continue, sounds like a fascinating story."

Thalrisa always hated lying to anyone, especially Loken, since she knew how much they would have to rely on each other in the coming months. Parr was just the first of her many stops she would have to make before moving onto her main goal. Loken would become an integral part of her journey, and her strategy moving forward. Trust between them was of principle priority.

"What they first thought to be warriors beyond measure soon became the cries of tortured men whipping the warriors into a blood-crazed frenzy. Their skin was ashen white, cracked and bleeding from the torture. The drumming soon began, rhythmic with an eerie and slow tempo. With every deep thump, they would break a slave's bone, and the crack would resonate around the ship. Gradually it became louder and louder, as the ghastly ship crept in closer and closer. My father's men prepared for battle, all of the seasoned warriors in their own right. Ardwin was my father's closest advisor and oldest compatriot in battle. They have known each other for summers beyond count, and for the first time in all of their battles my father saw true fear in Ardwin's eyes."

"But your brave father and his men stood their ground, right?", she asked expecting the answer to be one of shame and fear.

"Considering they were already on their ship at the time, the ground was not readily available.", Loken answered with a wry smile.

"Naturally, I suppose you are going to tell me the water has somewhat of a salty aroma to it?" , Thalrissa snapped somewhat back at the boys' attempt at humour.

"What I meant to say what that the wind was at this point already pushing them into this unholy vessel. There wasn't much that could be done, so they braced for a hard fight ahead. The leader at the helm took a wide stance, his hands joined at the fingertips in front of his stomach. He chanted over and over, louder and louder, according to my father the wind itself carried his words as if the elements bend to this monstrous man. The tallest man my father ever saw in his life, as they kept creeping in closer, my father expected at one point for the visage of the man to stop getting larger, but he was unbelievably massive. As he chanted the air around grow warmer and warmer, ethereal embers began to form around him.", he continued.

"A gothi... how unusual, for one to be so far from the north.", Thalrisa thought to herself.

"A ball of eldritch fire formed in his hands. But what frightened them the most was not the fire being cast, it was what was behind the man that struck fear into their bones.", he said.

"What was it Loken, what was so frightening that caused the brave men of Parr to be struck with such dread?", she asked still twirling carelessly within her silken sheets.

"It was the men, the raiders on the ship, they screamed and bellowed with such ferocity, such primal force, that it seemed the ocean vibrated with every guttural sound they have made. They were berserk, blood the only thought in their mind, focused to such a perfect edge, all of them screaming in unison, smashing their swords and axes against their shields in rhythm with their screaming. Amplifying, more and more with each thumb and roar, unified in a singular purpose. But my father did not fear, he knew the mind is just as great of a weapon as any blade, and this was all for show. He...", Loken spoke proudly, but Lady Thalrisa interrupted him.

"Men of the north, my dear Loken, are many things, liars and idle boasters is not one such thing. What you have experienced is not screaming and fury. What you saw were not howls of madmen. Those beatings and growls were a dance.", she explained.

"A dance?", Loken thought to himself quickly.

"More than that even.", she continued: "It's an invocation to their gods, a battle litany, a prayer of death and misery. Let me ask you something, the man who stood on the helm of the ship, has your venerable father fought him?", she asked, finally stopping her movement across the bed and listened carefully.

"Oh the large man, no he didn't. But he did see others fight him, he strode around their ship as large as a bear, and as agile as a wolf. At certain points force emitted from his hands knocking men off of the ships. He swung his axe with such ferocity that it shattered shields and swords like firewood. His hands could rip chunks out of the ship's railings and throw them at people with ease. My father has never seen a man with such raw unrefined strength.", he answered, noticing the change in her posture.

"That man is a ghomi, a battle priest of the northerners. They are not born as they are, but rather made with old magicks. Runes are branded into their skin and their organs whilst they are still relatively young. They are berserkers on the battlefield, with strength unmatched by anything I have seen since encountering one as a child.", her explanation fell on cautious ears.

"You knew one of them?", he asked, every piece of information he has on his potential enemies may prove useful in the future.

"Oh yes, I've travelled with one for a long time, I was very young at the time. But then again...", she let a small look of grief break through on her face and continued: 

"So was he...".


	7. Damned II - The family trade

"Come back to me, my sailor.

With a heavy sword,

And your salty hair.

Come back to me, my saviour.

If your hands are callous,

Or your ore lies broken,

Return to me,

Lest you remain loveless.

If you dwell in the deep,

With your eyes closed,

Take no heed of me,

And rest in your sleep.

Come back to me, my sailor.

With a heavy sword,

And a salty smile.

Come back to me, my saviour.

Fear not for glory,

Fear not for gold,

Return to your home,

So we may grow old.

Should the gods beckon,

Then beckon I as well,

They will have you forever,

And I will damn them to hell.

Come back to me, my sailor.

With a heavy sword,

And your salty skin.

Come back to me, my saviour."

Mikayla played her lyre with a breathtaking tone and beauty, creating utter serenity all around her. She was a very talented artist, and creativity oozed from her. Her clothing was hand made by herself with a bit of her mother's help. Her hair was always immaculate, as to her, she herself, was a canvas as much as any painting or song.

"How did you like it?", she looked at her newly found lover, resting on a clear patch of grass, nestling his head on his elbow.

"It's mesmerizing.", he answered... simply, for that is what he is, a man of simple tastes with no discerning eye for art, he was too busy looking at this goddess in front of him.

Mikayla, on the other hand, expected a bit more... well, anything really. He has no idea how much work and practice went into this and all she got were two words, outrageous.

But then again she remembered who she was talking to and that sometimes getting even those two words out of him is an accomplishment in and of itself.

He was a strange and quiet boy, but she loved him all the same, more and more with each passing day.

They spent hours together as they did nearly every day. However, today their serenity was interrupted by a loud bell tolling near the harbour. The Raider Bell was ancient, made of cast iron that hung at the entrance of harbour longer than anyone cared to remember. After each successful raid, the raid leader would climb up to the bell and slam it with its weapon, creating a notch and signalling that the raid has ended. 

"The raiders are back!", Mikayla screamed with joy in her face, as she was looking into the distance towards the port.

"I guess they are.", the boy's gaze, on the other hand, was affixed towards the ground, a familiar melancholy gripping over him.

Mikayla, as she was often known to do, grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him with her in a running motion towards the harbour.

"Come on, we need to move, my father is back.", a smile erupted, growing ever stronger with every step that brings them closer.

"Mikayla, what's the rush, they have only just arrived they still need to make safe the ships."

"My father has been gone for six months, I want to see him, is it so wrong to miss my father?", Mikayla protested all the while remaining in her running motion.

The boy begrudgingly agreed and followed her.

They've reached the market, sat right next to the pontoons, crawling with people. Merchants confidently announcing their wares louder and louder so as to be heard surrounded by the clamour. In the background, they saw Mikayla's father unloading one of the raid-ships, filled to the brim with gold and other baubles. It was a good raid, a good raid indeed. 

A man began to descend from the bell tower, with every step the wood creaked beneath his leather boot. Orm, he was known, Orm was his heroic name, Orm was his legend amongst his people. Nearly twice the size of a regular man and the strength and battle prowess to match his incredible stature. He was a priest, but unlike most priests who spout worthless words of peace and inner serenity, he was a priest of battle and rage. Blood was his ambrosia and battle was akin to a monastery to him, every death made in the name of his Gods.

Orm was the Raidchief, armed with a massive pair of serrated axes that hung to his sides. Both axes were intricately adorned with etchings of some religious significance, and any other man would need both hands to lift them off the ground, but not this monster, he held them in each hand as light as any sword. As Raidchief it was his sacred duty to make sure that he returned every man possible back to the village, even if it means he should die in their stead, if possible. Sacred duty to be sure, but one Orm welcomed with open arms.

He walked right past Mikayla and the boy and knelt before a small woman and child, both of them covered in tears.

"I ask for your forgiveness, honoured matron. The gods have seen fit to take your husband, but I wasn't fast enough to protest. Please punish me, for I have failed in my oath.", he exclaimed in his deep booming voice and all of a sudden all the clamour of the market deafened to but a careful whisper.

"Give me your weapon, brute.", the woman uttered through her tears.

With nay a thought, Orm pulled out one of his axes and presented it to the grieving woman.

"Have you taken his breath?", she asked.

"I have. His breath is now within me.", the giant answered.

"Stand up", and so he stood.

"I cut your heart, so you may feel the pain in mine,", and so she cut his across his chest, slowly, deeply, but no groan escaped Orm. 

" I cut your lungs, so that his breath may leave you and be free.", and so she cut.

Orm turned around standing proud and looking towards the sea, remembering his fallen comrade, and feeling a strange joy, he may not have been able to save him, but at least his family will be at peace, he will be at peace, his ancestors welcoming him in their mighty company.

"And now, in the name of those you have left behind, I cut your back, so that all the men you lead may know of your failures.", and so she cut, and dropped to her knees with grief.

Orm turned back to the woman, knelt once again, picked up the axe from the ground, and placed it back on his hip.

"Honored matron, your husband may be dead, but you and your child are alive. His blood is now within this weapon, and every swing will be made in his name, every death an invocation to his death and glory. This I promise you. Our enemies will know the name of your husband still, and by the gods, it will breathe fear into the very bones of their grandchildren, I must leave you now, rest assured I will return to your home on the morrow, with your share of his plunder, in all the years to follow, whatever you may need, my son and I are at your disposal.", Orm stood finally, turned and proudly walked away.

He was strangely unarmoured compared to other men in his Warband, he wore thick black loose leather pants, with only a wide white and tattered cloth tied around his ankles, no boots beneath it. Above that only a simple brown sash over one of his shoulder, that rested on a belt around his waist. His hands as well had no way of protecting him from the cold, but he seemed like he didn't even need it. Over his thick and broad neck there lay a simple chord piercing five heavy but small white polished elliptical stones. 

He walked passed Mikayla and the boy, paying them not even a moments notice. He was on his way to the local shrine. He was a priest after all. The gods demand his immediate attention. Mikayla looked up at the man with great revelry, he was a legend amongst their people. She has only seen him in passings by. Men and woman in the village avoid speaking to him, out of fear, she thought, until she learned that to disturb a priests daily goings-on is an ill omen. Quickly she came to realise that once approached by the man, every single villager was always smiling, cheerful, somewhat glad to be speaking to him, but no one ever seems to start the conversation, avoiding his gaze until he himself breaks words with them.

"His name is Orm, right?", Mikayla asked whilst pulling on the boy's shoulder, eyes still transfixed on the giant: "I have heard so many stories about him from my father, he said that Orm once...", she was briskly cut off by a man approaching them from the rear.

"Pebble, oh how I missed you!", the man spoke in a loud and happy fashion, a large smile erupting on his face.

"Where is your mother, have ya seen her?", the man started lowering himself to pick Mikayla up by her waist.

"Da!", Mikayla exclaimed, turning around jumping into the man's arms.

"Your back!", she continued: "Are you injured?".

"Me... injured. Bah!", his head leaned backwards in amusement: "There isn't a man alive who can injure me, but there are two women. Gods, each time I see you after these raids you wound me with how much you have grown in my absence."

"And who is this strapping young lad?", he asked fixing his gaze gently on the boy.

"My name is...", he began to speak but Mikayla was too fast for him, so she took over.

"Father, don't be rude, 'tis not time yet.", her recognizable wry smirk appeared on her lovely pale face, as she fell from her father's arms gracefully on her feet.

All of a sudden a pair of gentle plain hands appeared over the man's eyes.

"What witch has cast this spell on me, has she taken my eyes as payment for not looking upon her beauty for so long, I ask forgiveness from my lady, if it were up to me I would burn m'ladies image in my eyes so that I may look upon her eternal.", he spoke dramatically, faking surprise and shock.

"Oh shut up, silly man and kiss me.", she spun him around with a gentle swish of her left hand.

As he turned a vision of beauty invaded his eyes, no matter how many times he sees this goddess of perfection, to him it is like the first. He wonders how he could have ever made himself part ways with her for so long. His thoughts are shared in absolute equality by the woman in his arms. These two were put on this earth to complete each other, to share their lives together, for their breath to be as one.

She had silver hair, as it has lost all of its colour early in her life, bleached by the long suns of their village. Somehow, though, it fit her perfectly, emphasizing her pale beauty, and blue eyes, blue in blue, bluer than the sky, yet somehow darker than stormy seas. She was somewhat taller than the average woman, with long strong legs and muscular, yet feminine arms, she had a long scar across her left thigh, but she was proud of it, for she got it in her younger days as a shieldmaiden on a raid. But the call of an honoured matron cannot be ignored, and once Mikayla was born, her priorities shifted. She decided to stay at home, keep the farmstead in a regular condition, and ensuring her beautiful daughter's happiness and health.

They kept kissing, passion erupting between the two of them, six months worth of passion all coalescing into this one moment of unrefined blazing fire.

"Mhm!", Mikayla cleared her throat, reminding them they are not alone.

They finally parted, Mikayla's mother standing at the father's side, his hand around her waist, and hers on his shoulder, slowly caressing his dirty raven hair, she did not mind, dirty or not it was still her man, it was still her love.

"Oh you must be the boy Mikayla told me about.", her mother said through a smile, slowly looking the boy up and down.

"Oh, you were right, darling, he is right propper handsome isn't he?", she looked at her husband: "Isn't he just lovely Birger?", she continued.

"Mother!", Mikayla let out a quiet scream, trying to disguise her embarrassment as a command.

Birger's brow tilted a little bit, only now has he realised why it is not time yet. He pondered on how this boy managed to steal the heart of his little Mikayla.

"Does time really move that fast?", he thought to himself: "Only yesterday Astrid was stopping her from eating mud, and look at her now, already a man of her own under her arms. And what a man he will become, especially if his mighty father has a say in the matter, although...", a small smile escaped him: "The mother is quite the dragoness herself, I doubt she would want such a life for her son."

" Oh, now I see. Offer me valour and we may speak on your future, if not...", again much like the boy, he was interrupted by his wife's quicker wit and tongue.

"Now now, il have none of that, 'tis a bad omen to speak of such things before you've met the boy, he's from a good family, no need to be so formal. Our daughter has caught herself a wonderful boy, be happy for her, you brute.", she slapped gently across his left chest.

The boy looked down at the earth thinking how no one "caught" him, he's not an animal or a fish.

"We both know I did.", Mikayla subtly whispered in his ear, and a small smile took over the corner of his lip, best face the truth, she may have caught him, but they are together, neither of them subservient to the other.

"Oh I know his family, I don't hold issue with the family, the trade is what concerns me.", Birger stated as a familiar melancholy took over the boy.

Three women entered the marked, covered in blood and ash, wearing grey robes obfuscating them from head to toe. Each holding a sanguine bowl of goats blood. They walked passed all those present, ignoring each one, only approaching those who have returned from the raid, and spraying the goat's blood on their faces with a leather flail. They proceeded to speak a couple of words each, but they were too far away for the boy to hear them.

The cheerful dialogue proceeded for a while, Astrid making a rather decided point to playfully embarrass Mikayla at every opportunity she got, but the boy's eyes were affixed to the priestesses and he was only half present in the conversation around him.

After a while, Birger was approached by them as well. He turned towards the one in the middle and stoically looked upon her covered face. 

She dipped her flail in the blood and raised her hand at the ready: "Tharma attaku ekte rivas?", she asked.

"Nissuvilla gahateka harya ha!", he responded, and blood spread across his face, after which the trio calmly moved on to the next warrior in their sights.

They however quickly returned, once again looking at Birger.

"Where is Orm?", they asked in unison: "Where is the high-gothi?".

"He is in his temple, conversing with the gods." he gave his rebuke, stoically sure of his answer.

"Then we will look for him there. You honour the gods with your valour.", they said.

"Honoured they remain.", he said.

Suddenly they hear a solitary drum playing in a small shack on top of the hill.

"Go, boy, your father calls.", Birger said.

"His father?", Mikayla thought to herself: "Now that I think of it, he never speaks of his father, I don't even know the man's name."

"You are correct, sir.", the boy acknowledged: "I must be off. My father needs my help."

He let go of Mikayla's hand, he doesn't even remember holding it, or how long he was holding it, now that he had a moment to think about it, he is under the idea that they may have been holding hands this entire time. Worry began to take hold of him, how disrespectful towards Birger, towards Mikayla's father, to be so blatant about the budding relationship, to not even attempt to hide it.

"I was nervous, surely he should understand, no disrespect was intended?", he thought.

Before he even began to move towards the hill Mikayla put her hands around his shoulders and gave him a gentle and quick kiss on the lips.

"Go.", she whispered in his ear: "You did great, im proud of you. And if I don't meet your family tonight, I will be rather cross with you."

She pulled away whilst looking into his eyes, he signature smirk all over her face. People often mistook it for playfulness, but he has learned over the years the difference between her playful and deadly smirks, this was most certainly the latter. She was a headstrong girl, she always knew what she wanted and always went after it, nary a care in the world.

He knew what was in store for him even tried to weasel his way out. Even though she never understood why he was so against meeting his family, she was certain it was bound to be at least interesting. 

He simply nodded his head and continued towards his initial destination.

As he moved towards the small shack on the hill, he began to wonder how it only took them six months, why only six, why not longer, it was so nice without him around. But now he is back, and everything will fall away. He will be thrown away to a mountain in some snow and ice-filled land, away from her, away from his Mikayla, and the thought dreaded him to his very core. Never has he felt such a dependency on anyone, let alone to garner it so quickly. 

It was only two months since that day in the cave, and already breaths made without her around were somehow shallow and could not satiate his hunger for air. His stomach, the source of the soul, according to his father, felt empty without her to fill the void within him. But now, that void will be there for a long time. So long in fact, that he was afraid if he will be able to face such challenges alone. Once he was a strong and brave boy. Now all his thoughts are directed towards her, he eats so that he may live and see her, he drinks water so his skin may feel hers once again. Soon, however, it will all fall away, and reveal the monstrous edifice standing in the way of his happiness with his mate.

As he neared the shack the drums became louder and louder, more pronounced, piercing the air around him. He knew what awaited inside, what words will be broken, and he fears every second of it. He wishes to stave off his future for as long as he can, his father can sometimes be rather cruel, always hiding behind the excuse that the boy does not see the world the right way, through propper eyes, and that he cannot fully understand the forces the guide his fathers hands towards such ends. He thought of them as cowards words, not a thing more, but then again he never knew his father to be a coward, in fact, that may even be a little insane how prepared he is to run into danger headfirst, with no care for his safety.

He entered the small building, human skulls resting on every surface possible, some coloured red, other in that distinct ghastly pale white colour he always despised.

A man was kneeling in the centre of the room, on a small piece of rough tapestry facing away from the boy. There was a thick coat of blood on his back, made with a diagonal cut from his left shoulder down to his right rib. But there was no wound.

"Boy, finally you have arrived.", the man spoke in a voice so deep the ground may shake in its presence.

"I am here Orm-ghomi?", he responded whilst falling to his knees.

The behemoth stood, turned around and walked a couple of titanic steps until he reached the boy's temple with his hand.

"Stand, son, we haven't seen each other in months, is this all the joy you can muster, gods you must be my son", Orm said.

"Sit, we must talk about your turn to go to Ulthan, to my brother Throm. He will teach you all you need to know, you will be as I am. A proud priest of battle for our people."

All the boy could think, whilst looking at the ground, were just a couple of simple words.

"But what if I don't want to?".


	8. Nomad III - The Deific Gifts

Warmth again took over his mind, and desperation started to set in. His fingers began to sting with a thousand needles, frozen stiff. He put them over the fire and slowly moved them closer and closer to the blaze. Once again he was pulled back into his memories of how once... long ago, a flame burned him like nothing before, how the gods continued to bless him, or, as he has come to realize, curse him, with their gifts.

The towering inferno before him burned him from an incredible distance, but it would not stop him, he would become cleansed in its purity stripped of all past sins, baptized in its holy fire. He started to move, onwards and onwards, higher and higher, closer and closer, to the twisting blaze that was before him. First his hair, it burned out like hay, then it came for his skin, searing it slowly, making him feel every moment of it, but he was in a trance, the prize was before him and he would not be deterred. He could feel the blood in his body begin to boil, but no, he will not stop, not now, not when he is this close. His anger fueled him forward, radiated within him as much as the flames that surrounded his body, he was a not unlike a god now, pain has no effect on him, he feels it, but it does not hurt. He was amazed by his newfound resilience, his vigor, power, and strength, if this was the power of just one of their blessings, then what would be the cumulative power of them all, what unnatural strength will he posses, what strange abilities, he could only imagine.

His dull body limped over the final blackened step, barely able to stand yet still proud and defiant. He looked upwards into the towering titans face with barely enough muscle and sinew remaining to keep his head aloft, but even now he felt his veins reappearing, his skin remade anew all over his broken form, he was strong, stronger than ever before.

"A warrior stands before you, young one. One of great power, and skill greater still. If you fight him like a coward, or with honor makes little difference, you will still lose, how do you defeat him? What tricks and deceits do you employ to best him?" the titan spoke with a voice so deep it shook the very air around them if that was even air at all.

He leaned forward unnaturally, any other man would probably have his spine broken by such movement, but this is no man. This is a god of war unlike no other. His face was the size of mountains, and his eye was as big as the sun in the sky. Those very eyes were filled with a blood red fire that burned from their edges into the center, like a vortex of water but made from flame.

The ravaged man thought long and hard, how does one beat a warrior who cannot be bested, no matter the form of combat they enter, the warrior will be the victor.

"So the answer is to then avoid all combat, but how do you defeat someone without testing your might against them. How do you bring someone to their knees, without showing them your power is greater than theirs?" he spoke to himself.

"Not all battles are won by the sword, young one. Kings and Emperors become as such not due to their skill in combat, but rather their skill in peace" the giant boomed once again, guiding him to the right answer.

He thought of assassination, but the god denied it, the warrior is too smart to fall for such trickery, he tried poison, but the warrior tests his food before consumption. Whatever solution he fabricated, the god denied.

"You must defeat him in combat" he kept repeating, all the while making it plainly obvious that such a thing is an impossibility.

And there it was, fighting him, and winning, was impossible, but defeating him in combat is not.

"Make him want to die" he presented his answer with confidence.

The god picked up his enormous blade and along with it began to shrink himself to human size... well, just close enough one would think he was human.

"And how would you come about doing it?" the deific fighter asked.

"I would not kill him, I would dry his rivers, soil his land, deprive him of his love, take from him his spawn, empty his coffers, and sour his wine. Given time his life will wither, and with it, his will for life, and only when he comes to me begging for an end will I bestow it upon him, with my sword in hand"

"Very good child, very good indeed, all things alive have a weakness, a true warrior finds it and exploits it. Fighting is more than just handling a blade, for a blade unlike the eye is blind, and one needs to see in order to defeat. You have earned my blessing, you have earned my curse, look into my eyes and receive them, look deep and look well, for one chance is all I will bestow upon you"

The fire around them suddenly died down, becoming deathly cold in mere moments. The air coming out of his mouth turned into a gray mist making it very hard to see even the god in front of him. His skin began to once again feel the comforting cold of the times of yore. But that was a part of a man now dead, he will be reborn in this fire of hatred, this ice of dedication.

-This world must end, it must be reformed, we must be the hammer, and you shall be the anvil upon which we will break down, you are our chosen, I bestow upon you my gift, however you are felled in combat, no matter how many times you are killed by the grace of another's blade, you will come here to me, and I will reignite the Flames of Hatred within you, hatred will hold you, sustain you, but never heal, for hatred destroys, it annihilates, but never heals. Now go along and continue with you gifts"

He felt himself be pulled through space, pulled further back. Days faded further into one another, he lost all semblance of time while he was in this vortex surrounded once again by the lights and shapes he could not comprehend, twisting and darting around him. Colors of great radiance and beauty, of clarity and serenity. They calmed him, the hatred was now gone, subsided by both time and what was around him. The lights sped up their movement slowly coalescing into a shape, a shape his mind could finally form into an image. It was a chair, that brown gilded chair, again empty.

"Do you see me?" A playful voice spoke to him be he could not figure out its origin.

"Where are you? WHERE ARE YOU?" He spoke with fear in his voice.

"I am in all the dark choices you have ever made, I am everything any human was ever afraid of, I lay in history, I am the summoner of death, caller of decay, the divider and the creator, the giver and the taker, without me none of you would exist, life, death, war, love, none of it existed until i willed it. Who am I and do you see me?" The voice around him boomed once again.

He floated, for hours he floated in silence, thinking, considering what is this creature he spoke to, how is it all around him but he cannot see it. How is its voice everywhere at the same time? This and many other questions arose from deep within him, those dark recesses of his mind that the very creature spoke of mere moments ago, if those were moments, if a concept like "ago" is even applicable here.

"You already know that I figure out your schemes, for you have seen them, for you have already been there.. Master of time" He spoke confidently.

The chair once again divided itself into a thousand lights that divided into a thousand lights, again playing and dancing around him, again quicker and quicker. For fleeting moments he saw bronze shoulder pads with a somber face on each, and then they were gone, to be soon replaced with a long flowing tunic made of the night sky, stars burning brightly upon it. Soon he saw gray skin and exposed ribs at the sides, shadows forming black gangly wrists with long fingers, a face void of any expression, eye sockets void of eyes to be replaced by black smoke, horn made of the darkest of soot, covered in gold rings and armlets. The giant became a stable vision but had a constant shimmer to it, like it was being distorted, like it was moving left to right, only so quick he could never make out where ti was exactly. It was because the God was nowhere and everywhere at the same time, this was a creature omniscient.

"Good, yes, I knew you answer before you were even born, before the world was shaped, before even I came into existence I knew, just as I know all else. We the gods whispered the world into existence, and in doing so gave words a great power, power beyond what you could understand, and so I give you power over these words, overall words. If someone hears you they will listen, as if commanded by the universe itself, use it with wisdom for it is a great power to be had in the hand of one so...fleeting" the god explained.

"I will return you to the last one of us, he is a capricious one, be careful of her for she is very young and brash. Go now and carry our will with you"

In a flash, as if he was always there, he found himself in a gold and marbled room, sunlight emanating from the windows on the eastern walls. He walked across the room looking at the snow white pillars that decorated it, stepping onto warm and embroidered with various images of lovers and hedonism. And then his were set upon her, a goddess in every way fathomable, perfect purple skin adorned with a golden gown lighter than air. On her head so delicately placed, a blue khepresh, with a modest golden serpent on its front. She movements, her glides, were mesmerizing. Feminine, alluring, yet ever so frightening, for it was obvious that every movement was never made in excess, always perfectly calculated and dosed. Her face was gentle, yet scheming, her eyes sensual, yet furious, her tone kind, yet menacing.

"My, my, my, you are a specimen are you not. What a figure, what bearing, that father of yours was a sight to behold the first time I met him, but I must say you seem an even more appealing catch, I wonder however if you could exceed" she smiled and tilted her head lower slightly- him in other aspects. I do very much hope you do, 'twas a while since I had... worthy visitors.-

"Who are you?" the man spoke as soon as he was freed of the enchantress for a moment.

"Who am I? Hahaha. Well I, young one, am a god. A god of love and hate, a goddess of pleasure and pain, a deity unlike any other, while others limit and order, I merely covet and love. Fornication is my prayer, excess my lifeblood. I am the little whisper in your head that drove you to her, that made you fall for her. I am the thought that made you drink that ale, enjoy the touch of a woman. I am all of these things, and I am so very much more. Go on child ask and I will answer"

"What is this place?" he pondered in his mind.

"This, my wonderful creature, is nothing more than a mere reflection of myself, this is what I will it to be. I desire beauty, and therefore beauty it shall become, I desire grandeur, and so grand it shall be. My desires are endless, my appetites voracious, and for now my warrior, both of these must be satiated."

He noticed with the corner of his eye that the room was in a constant state of flux, ever-changing ever moving, but subtly, barely noticeable. Corners would change shades, desks would move, and so on.

"What must I do?" he bowed his head, getting slightly tired of all of these games.

"You must break me down, then edify my body in pleasure and pain. Fill as you would a cup, drain me, only to be filled again and again in a torrent of emotion. I want this effigy of a body to burn from stimulation, and I want you to be the architect of such wanton degradation" she slowly crept towards him, sensually whispering getting ever closer to his left ear.

He grabbed her and held her tightly, close to his chest. Her hands slowly arose behind him and began to untie his leather harness, gently, slowly, longing for what will follow. Before long he stood in front of her, absent all garments, his pale skin shining in the desert sunlight. She looked up and down his ripe physique savoring each moment, observing, lost in contemplation.

"Oh, you will do indeed" she exclaimed with a wry smile on her face.

Turning around towards the bed behind her, her silk, almost transparent dress, began to turn into dust made of silver glass, flowing graciously towards the marble floor. And what a sight she was, perfect in every way, the walk, the smooth skin, shine of her snow-white hair, perfect, irresistible, agonizingly beautiful. Two attendees appeared from behind two ornamented columns, carrying smoking clay pots and cups filled with wine. They wore long purple robes with black cowls and golden armlets. Their movements were very fluid as if they floated above the air.

The air began to smell a bit sour, it was hard to notice at first, but once he realized it he could not shake the feeling of a loss of control. A warm sensation started to arise from the center of himself. Soon it was hard for him to perceive depth and exactly how far something was away from him, impeding his movement severely, but he could see her, plain as day. His eyes ever fixed on the most ravishing creature he has seen in his entire lifetime. It was in this moment he knew, no woman will ever be looked upon as this goddess is at this very moment. His legs began to move on their own, absent any thought or control, and he enjoyed that, he was relieved to not be in control of his actions, his entire life spent in arduous calculations and thoughts, and now his mind is quiet, deathly so.

She finally reached the bed and spread her body all over it, caressing the garments that were on top of it, sliding them all over her body, as if summoning him by dance. Upon seeing her the animal arose within him, rushing the bed he jumped onto her, slipping his hand beneath her back arching it upwards and pulling her towards his face. The hairs on the back of his neck arose from his skin as he felt her breath on his lips, soft, tender, inviting. She smiled, put her hand onto his chest and began to slide ever downwards. His heart began to pound quicker and quicker with each passing moment, almost to an uncontrollable degree.

Suddenly she grabbed the back of his neck with one hand, her nails digging into his skin so far blood began to flow, rose above him, and then lowered herself onto him. The moment he entered her was a sensation unlike any other, the sheer ecstasy like she was made of unrefined pleasure. He felt as if the woman was coursing through his veins, they were truly one, in both body and mind. Hours passed, maybe even days, he did not know and could care even less than that. She was before him, and he in her, for now, that was all that existed.

After more time had passed than he would even care to contemplate, he felt his body begin to give way. All the intoxicating air, all the wine, the fornication began to take their toll on him, and soon, very soon he was to collapse, but the very same body compelled him onward, even past death he thought. But alas it was a battle he could only lose, never win. She was on top of him, moving and gyrating to the rhythm of their movements, and with time his eyes slowly began to close, heavier and heavier they were until they close of their own volition.

When he woke up she was still on him still enthralled by the pure joy of motion. She noticed his eyes opening and fell onto him, her face a breath away from his.

"Oh, my sweet little man, you performed... splendidly. Oh what it is to feel you within me, truly worthy of a goddess, as gratitude I give you my breath, you will never tire, never sleep, never be winded, a machine of motion and consciousness, you will be for the world what you were for me this day, an unstoppable avalanche of pleasure, pain, and every emotion between them"

She opened her mouth and a blue fiery mist began to drip from it. He inhaled strongly, his sight sharpening in the very moment, legs muscles tightening, arms revitalized, mind clear. A new strength was found within him, and he knew it. His skin began to burn away in ornamental patterns, leaving heavy scarring, but it did not hurt, like much of what he felt while he was with her, it was a pleasuring pain. The scar tissue began to cover his back, his arms, and neck, glowing in the same light as the enchantresses skin.

"Make me feel again, my beautiful warrior, so that we may part on the greatest of terms"

He entered her again, and stayed within her for what seemed like a century, holding onto her aggressively, not caring for her pleasure anymore, only for his. But sometimes that is exactly what gives the other even greater heights of bliss.

Finally the cold snapped him out of his memories and he looked down towards the old wolf and enjoyed the gentle calm that surrounded them, the rush of the cold wind around them, the light of the stars above, it all seemed so tranquil, so pristine, it almost made him feel sorrow, soon all of it would be gone. But once again, the frost began to enter his veins, to bite his skin. Once again he looked deep into his waning flame, the last bastion of heat in this void filled with snow. How proudly his compatriot sat there in pure defiance, refusing to show any sign of pain, refusing to show weakness to the enemy. The man once again went down on his knees in front of the old wolf and put both of his hands to its cheeks, stroking and caressing it.

"Yes, I do envy you old one. For you do not know the burden of what must be done, for you do not know of what I must do, and what I have given in order to see it to its fruition, devour to survive, so it is, so its always been. This world is hostile, so impersonal, and so you must feed my power, as your pray has fed yours for your entire life"

He opened his mouth and the wolfs eyes began to boil within its head, popping away and revealing the same fiery mist that once dripped from the goddesses own mouth, the scars began to glow so brightly they were visible from even beneath the heavy clothing on top of them. The mist moved through and against the air, into the man's mouth, and in a moment, the wolfs life was no longer within its body, a lump of flesh absent soul. He put his hand right above the wolfs head, and the body suddenly stiffened, defying gravity itself. His body rose, hand still outstretched firmly and the wolf began to float along with it as if held by an invisible rope. Turning around he placed his hand above the fire, the wolfs body following closely.

"Now burn and sustain me"

The grip of his hand loosened in an instant and the carcass fell into the fire, burning brightly and warmly, thawing the frost from him, making his future dark crusades ever easier.


End file.
